Black Sun Rising

Chapter Two

"What the hell do you do on a Vision Quest, anyway?" DCI Patrick Smith asked, with his usual tact and subtlety, taking a swig of his pint. "Isn't it just a bunch of hippies in the desert taking drugs?"

"Mostly." Sam picked up the little water jug and added a dash to his whisky. "I mean, I can understand it if you're an actual Native American Indian, and it's something you do as part of your religion or because that's your tradition. But what Jefferson's doing… it just looks like someone's figured out a way to take ten grand a pop off of middle-aged men for taking them on a little camping trip. And the really clever bit is that they don't have to worry about getting complaints about it being too hot, or too uncomfortable, or the food being terrible, because that's the point. Everyone's there to fast and be uncomfortable." He sipped his drink, and then gave a satisfied sigh. "Wish I'd thought of it first."

"You don't fancy doing it, then?"

Sam shook his head. "Can you see me lasting five minutes in a setup like that, Paddy? I'd get kicked out for drinking or telling the warrior leader to fuck off."

"The shaman, Sam. They are called shaman," Paddy smiled into his glass as he took a swig.

Sam paused with an indifferent leer and carried on, "Mind you, there's a little bit of me that wishes I had the self-control to do it. The money that Jefferson's offering is really damn good. Still, it's not for me."

"So what's the plan instead?" Paddy asked. "Are you staying here?"

"I don't know," Sam replied. "Probably. I've had enough running around to last me a lifetime, and it's about time I started trying to build something permanent. You know, maybe I should buy a flat or something — think about the long term."

Paddy's jaw nearly hit the table. "Sam Cleave thinking about the future? Is all that therapy starting to show? What have they done to you, Sam?"

"You can get straight to fuck," Sam grinned, as Paddy dissolved into helpless laughter. "You bought your house when you were twenty-five, you prematurely middle-aged bastard. It's just time, that's all."

"Sorry, Sam," Paddy gasped for breath and tried to get his laughter under control. "I'm happy for you, really I am. It's just… I wish you could see the change in yourself. The state you were in a year ago, I didn't think you were going to make it. I was forever worrying that you'd walk under a bus or something. And now you're actually talking about buying a house!"

"A flat, Paddy," Sam corrected. "Let's not get carried away. It's just that I've got the money I got paid for the Antarctica trip sitting there, and it's enough for a deposit with a little bit left over, so I thought I might."

"The Sam Cleave I knew a year ago would have blown it all on single malt and binged himself to death. That's what you told me your plan was."

Sam smiled wryly at the memory. "True. And the man I was three years ago would have spent the lot on a trip around the world with Trish." He waited for the melancholy drop in his stomach that he always experienced when he mentioned her name, but it did not come. Cautiously, he continued. "It still pisses me off that we never got to do that, you know. She'd been saving for years. The plan was to start in Paris and just work our way east until we found ourselves back there." Still the gut twist of grief did not happen. Instead, Sam felt a swift pang of guilt, like hundreds of tiny, simultaneous knife wounds, brought on by being able to think about her in such normal terms.

Unable to resist inflicting a little more pain on himself, Sam reached into the recesses of his mind for the memory of Trish, a little bit tipsy on her thirty-second birthday, explaining her travel plans with all the careful detail of inebriation. She — they — would cross Russia on the Trans-Siberian Express, she had informed him. Faithfully he recalled her leaning across the table, too intent to notice the puddle of spilled beer soaking her elbows, pushing a loose tendril of hair into her customary messy topknot.

It was a gesture that always made Sam want to untuck the strand again, just to see the flicker or amused annoyance that crossed her lovely face when he did. He could picture everything — the ring she wore on the middle finger of her right hand, the tiny scar on the tip of her nose, and the way she tapped the table to emphasize her points. What he could not find, though, was her voice — not clearly, at least. It was muffled in his head, as if he were listening for her from behind a thick pane of glass.

"Sam?"

With a sudden, fierce shake of the head, Sam dragged himself back to reality. "Sorry, Paddy, I was miles away."

"So I could see. Are you ok?"

"I'm fine."

Paddy sat back, but Sam could see the concern on his round, normally cheerful face. "Good. So do you know where you're going to look for a place?"

"Probably just around here," Sam said. "I like Southside. Something like the place I've got just now would do nicely. And if I don't look too far then I won't have to get a moving company, I can just borrow a shopping cart from Tesco and wheel everything from place to place in that. Or I could get some chump with a car to help me shift stuff. There's bound to be some big ginger bastard who'd do it for a few pints and a pizza."

"Aye, there probably is." Paddy downed the last of his peanuts, crumpled the packet, and threw it at Sam. "But I know you. If I help you move, I'll end up buying the pizza."

Sam considered denying it, but both men knew it was true. "Probably," he said. "But you never know. Maybe I'll surprise you. And I haven't even started looking yet, so I've got time to save up. Maybe Mitchell's calling me to give me a raise — then when the time comes I'll be able to get you extra pepperoni."

"So, what can I do for you, Mitchell?"

In the two years that Sam had been working for the Post, he had managed to avoid most of Mitchell's "little chats." They were notorious among the journalists as well-intentioned wastes of time. Since Mitchell's nepotistic appointment as assistant editor, he had been desperately trying to make the little world of the Edinburgh Post a better place, and Sam knew he was not the only seasoned journalist to take advantage of this.

Mitchell was constantly torn between his desire to keep supposed "star" journalists like Sam happy and the need to keep sales figures high to please the demanding father who had appointed him to the job. When Sam felt bad about giving Mitchell a hard time by turning in pieces a little after deadline or half-assing the less interesting stories, he rationalized it by reminding himself that a little sweat was a small price to pay for the considerable privilege and security that the young man enjoyed.

"Good to see you, Sam!" Mitchell wore his customary desperate beam. "I, er… I wanted to have a little chat. Have a seat."

Sam dropped into the low-slung armchair facing Mitchell's desk and shuffled around a bit, unable to get comfortable, conscious of his legs being too lanky for this kind of seat.

"Coffee? I can send someone—"

"No, it's fine." Sam tried stretching his legs out, but that was even less comfortable than having his knees jutting upward like denim foothills.

"Well, if you're sure." Mitchell perched on his desk in a failed attempt at casualness and picked up his own cup, clearly freshly fetched from the Starbucks across the road. He took a lengthy swig of his chai latte, then replaced it and fixed his gaze on the cup. "The thing is, Sam — I'm going to come straight to the point. The thing is… I'm sure you're aware that the paper's not doing so well just now. It's a tough time for print media. We're struggling to keep the figures up. We're going to have to tighten our belts a bit."

Sam nodded. This "little chat" was not entirely unexpected. Sam had been aware of rumors flying around for some time about the paper's impending move to new, cheaper premises and a heavier focus on content for the website rather than the print edition. Everyone had been expecting the breaking news of the move and for the staff to have their workload increased while the pay remained the same.

"Fair enough," Sam said. "So where are we moving?"

"Moving?"

"Isn't that what's happening? A few of the people have been taking bets on where we'll be going. Mine's on the old office buildings at Meadowbank. Am I right?"

For a moment Mitchell said nothing. This was clearly not how he had intended this conversation to go, and Sam could see the wheels in his head turning as he tried to figure out how to get it back on track. He took a deep breath, then retreated behind his desk and sat down. "Sam, I think you've got the wrong end of the stick," he sighed. "We are moving, it's true — but that's not what I needed to talk to you about. It's — well — we're downsizing, Sam, quite considerably. And we've got to let some people go." Having finally come to his point, Mitchell plowed on full speed. "I'm so sorry, Sam. You know I'd keep you on if I could, but the decisions come from higher up. What we're hoping for is that the savings we'll make will pull the paper clear and then once we're on a better footing we'll be able to bring you back in. Maybe even on a better deal!"

It took a few seconds for Sam to take in what he had just heard. He stared blankly at Mitchell, pink-faced and perspiring as the lad smiled a smile that pleaded with Sam not to hate him. Meaningless words washed over him as Mitchell began to babble about redundancy packages, severance pay, and the difficulty of maintaining a print newspaper in the age of print media. The phrase "last in, first out" made an appearance, accompanied by vague expressions of Mitchell's fear for his own job. None of it sank in. When Mitchell pushed the papers terminating Sam's contract across the desk, Sam took up the chewed pen he was offered and signed without a word. He laid the pen down with uncharacteristic precision, lining it up against the text of the redundancy agreement.

As Mitchell showered him with thanks for being so cooperative, Sam began to wonder how many others were going to suffer the same fate that day. A glance at the clock told him that this "little chat" had taken fewer than ten minutes. In that short space of time, Sam had gone from being a man with a plan to put down roots to a redundant drifter. Next to the clock Mitchell had hung a collection of framed photos, each showing him with someone he considered important.

His father, the lord provost, the first minister, a couple of high-profile writers and artists… and Sam, looking bemused and a little disheveled as Mitchell shook his hand enthusiastically. He had never noticed that photo before, perhaps because it was hard to spot among the others, or perhaps because Sam so often dodged Mitchell's chats. He recognized the event — it was a party hosted by the Clarion just after Sam had received his Pulitzer. He had shaken hands with many enthusiastic young journalists that day. He had never realized that Mitchell had been among them.

And now he's giving me the boot, Sam thought, half-amused and half-annoyed. He allowed Mitchell to grasp his hand once again and give it his best firm handshake before holding the door open for Sam to leave. He was halfway through it when a thought struck him and he turned.

"Mitchell?"

A flicker of dread flashed across Mitchell's face, anticipating awkward questions or recriminations. "Yes, Sam?"

"Before I go — where are the new premises? I need to know if I won the bet while I'm still here to collect on it."